


Redd Crown

by Duskwalker



Category: Alice In Wonderland - Lewis Carroll, Looking Glass Wars - Frank Beddor
Genre: Alice in Wonderland References, Alternate Universe, Bondage, Eventual Sex, Gay Sex, M/M, Mind Manipulation, Murder, Original Character(s), Porn With Plot, Rape/Non-con Elements, S&M, Sex Toys, Smut, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-11
Updated: 2017-03-11
Packaged: 2018-10-02 14:42:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,557
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10220513
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Duskwalker/pseuds/Duskwalker
Summary: The Heart-Spade War's devastating vice has finally relinquished Wonderland after twenty long years, with the House of Hearts rising triumphant. Reddael Heart, heir to the throne of Hearts, has been declared King of Wonderland. A heavy burden rests upon his shoulders. Wonderland has not seen peace in two decades, and society itself is teetering on the brink of collapse. His closest adviser, Mortimer March, has sworn fealty to the young king to assist him in any ways that he can.But all is not as simple as March makes it out to be. An insurgency is already bubbling on the distant horizon. Dusk descends upon the royal court as rumors of the escape of an infamous assassin, Maddox Hatter, pass between tight lips. Alden Liddel, a war criminal with a bounty on his head, is said to have infiltrated the court. To the north, Lord Ace of Spades is growing ever more impatient for what the king promised to him after the war. And in the center of it all, Reddael sits upon a thrown of bones, with his own adviser manipulating him in ways not even the Oracles of the Church of Absolem could have foretold.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is an original work set in a world called Wonderland--much like Lewis Carroll's Wonderland, but darker. All characters are completely original and any similarities found between them and characters of other works is purely coincidental.

“Rise.” 

March’s voice was a warm sliver of silk thread, weaving through his mind and tangling any thought train that hoped to form. Reddael shivered. Dreams of poppy fields and flying banners faded into the warmth of his comforter. He opened his eyes. The room was dark and gray, lit only by the pale, watery dawn seeping through the red fabric of his bed curtains. 

March’s cool, spindly fingers grace his spine, and then withdraw with little more than a whisper. Prince Reddael sat up and stretched. “The coronation is today,” he yawned. 

March glided silently behind the thin, silky mesh of the curtains. “Yes. Are you nervous?” He pulled them open and laid an ironed pair of trousers over the foot of the bed. 

“No,” Redd said softly, squinting against the light. He swung his legs out from beneath the sheets and touched down onto the cold honeycomb tile. Its wool-gray color reminded him of the unrelinquishing rains that drummed the battle ground, and of the cold that latched into his bones during sleepless nights beneath a blanket of frigid stars.  
March tore him from his thoughts as he passed him. “I’ve prepared a bath,” he said. 

Redd nodded and crossed the stretch of empty floor to the bathroom. His chambers--the King’s Chambers, they were called--were the largest of the entire palace, with dark, rippled walls and an oblong window twice the height of a man spanning from one wall to the opposite, granting Redd a gorgeous view of the sleepy, sprawling capital far below. 

Redd stepped into the bathroom and rolled the door closed behind him. The black tiles occupying the floor, walls, and ceiling glittered with water droplets. In the center of the room, there was a pool, its water stained blue from scented oils and salts. Redd alighted the steps, gasping at its warmth, and then sank into it with a sigh. He laid his head back against the rim. His hair, long and red, flowed about his shoulders in silky strands, swirling with the currents in the water. Redd remembered the days when it had been kept it short, remembered his mother fussing over its length in their makeshift encampment home. He remembered her pulling him down into the moist grass in front of her and cutting it, while he closed his eyes and absorbed the scents of fire-smoked meats and wildflowers… 

“Lord Reddael,” March said. His voice reverberated through the bathroom tile, striking through his daydreams like a sword through cloth. 

Reddael pushed himself into a sitting position. “I am nearly finished.” He fetched his sponge from the poolside and ran it down his arms and torso, working the scented oils into his flesh. He had no time to himself--no time to ponder all that he had been through. March was behind him in every move he made; his voice flowed behind every word he spoke. Reddael lifted himself from the water with a grimace, pulled the plug, and wrapped a towel about his waist before heading back into his room. Of course, March was waiting for him.

“The ceremony is in two hours, Sire.” 

“Yes, I know this.” 

“Would you like me to call in a servant to braid your hair?” 

“No, I can do it.” 

“The oracle-priestess from the Church of Absolem arrived by carriage a short time ago. She wishes to greet you before the ceremony.” March followed Reddael across the room to his dresser, and leaned over him as he rifled through it. 

Reddael clicked his tongue. “Tell her we can speak over breakfast. Where is my undershirt?” 

“You may not have time for breakfast. And it is there, My Liege, beneath your--” 

“Yes, I see it,” Reddael snapped. “Can I have peace so I may dress?” March opened his mouth to speak, but one warning glare from Reddael silenced him. With a bow, he excused himself from the King’s Chamber. 

Reddael pushed the breath from his lungs. He pulled his undershirt over his head, slid into his brushed cotton trousers, and then picked out a high-collared dress shirt and tucked it into the buttoned waist. Redd laced up his riding boots next. From his meager wardrobe, he chose a red silk vest adorned with silver buttons and a gray ascot, which he tucked into his vest collar. After throwing his hair into a quick plait, he unhooked his cloak from where it hung beside the door and slipped out into the corridor, draping it about his shoulders and fastening it at his throat. The ruby clasp beamed cruelly in the twilight. 

“Like a king,” March said, falling into step beside him. 

Reddael held his head high, the ghost of a smile resting upon his lips. Like a king.

The corridor turned sharply to the right, taking the pair down a flight of broad, carpeted steps and into the throne room. Servants scurried to and fro, raising the banners of the House of Hearts on lines about the perimeter of the room and preparing the long tables for a great feast. Arched windows on either side let the rising day into the corridor, casting beams of shimmering dust across the open floor. The dais in which the throne sat was roped off from the other servants. The throne was hidden beneath a red sheet, freshly buffed and awaiting its rightful king. 

As Reddael entered the room, an eerie hush followed, and each servant fell to one knee with their heads bowed. March squeezed his arm reassuringly and leaned in, lips brushing his ear. “The oracle is waiting beside General Knave at the door.” When Redd nodded, March wrenched him by the arm harshly. “Guard your tongue, dear prince. You and I may not see eye to eye on religious matters, but that does not mean you have a right to disrespect the oracle. She is sacred to these lands. Remember that.” 

Redd glared at March, tearing free of his grasp. He raised his chin up and confidently strode to where the oracle stood, his cloak brushing the floor behind him like a blanket of roses. He stopped and bowed his head. The oracle returned the favor. 

“I knew it would be you,” she said. She reminded Redd much of a willow branch, and had cropped, blue hair that shot up in awkward spikes about her ears. A large pair of spectacles made her technicolor eyes thrice their normal size. She wore many layers of silken robes, all of which were inscribed with letters and patterns from dreams and dates she wished to remember. 

Redd cocked his head. “Is that so?” he said softly. He could feel the burn of March’s gaze into the back of his head. The hair on his neck prickled. “Come, priestess. Your journey has been long. Will you sit with me?” 

The priestess shook her head. “I will stand.” 

The servants shuffled to their places along the walls, behind the lines of vigil-standing card soldiers. Nobles and lords gathered in a pool, all ruffled gowns and puffed chests. The quiet din of voices settled into a hushed whisper. The ceremony was starting. The priestess linked her arm with Redd’s and escorted him toward the dais. The sheet had been pulled free, revealing a black, obsidian throne inlaid with volcanic orbs as red as dusk. The rope barrier was gone. General Knave stood faithfully behind it, and beside him, a squire held the cushion on which his crown sat, as bloody and beautiful as a phoenix's plumage. A shudder ran through Redd’s heart. 

The priestess released him. He graced the steps and took his place upon the throne of Hearts, his expression impassive as to how hard and cold it felt beneath him. 

“On the dawn before the Feast of Elders, beneath the ever-watching gaze of Absolem, we crown the rightful king of Underland.” The priestess’s voice cut through the air like a honed blade. She gingerly plucked the crown from the squire’s cushion, careful not to prick her fingers on the spires that lined its outer rim. “On the dusk of the great Heart-Spade War, we crown the triumphant Heart as our true ruler.” She slowly lowered the crown onto Redd’s head. He tensed against its weight, gazing straight over the heads of his people. “To Reddael Heart, first of his name, heir and lord to the House of Hearts, descendant of Remnant Weaver the Graceful and Lord Silveye Heart… I dub you King of Wonderland.” 

Reddael stood. General Knave bowed his head and presented him with his father’s Vorpal Blade. Redd hesitated, then took it into his hands and raised it for his people to see. “May no war ravage our beautiful country ever again.” 

The wild cheers of the people fell upon deaf ears. Redd stood as still as a stone, his heart throbbing in his chest. But he was steady. Reddael Heart, King of Wonderland. His gaze flitted to the tall, dark shadow of March standing in the corner, watching him with his burning, amber eyes. Redd swallowed. King of Wonderland.

March smiled. 

King.


	2. The White Rabbit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alden Liddel pays a visit to the White Rabbit nightclub to meet up with an old friend. He encounters a surprisingly helpful acquaintance as he's waiting.

Purple light spilled onto the wet asphalt, cast off of the neon pocketwatch sign hanging over the adjacent door. The boom of speakers blasting swing cracked the white roar of the rain. Dancers left the nightclub in a trickle, their skin hot and gleaming with sweat, laughing drunkenly. It was a night to remember, and the capital city of Rokonos was alive and writhing. A man dressed very unlike the others pushed past the dancers, slipped beneath the sign, and moved into the hall. Glowing, horizontal slats lining the walls gave way to a stairwell. He stepped down las if he had a hundred times before, running a hand through the mass of tight, blond curls atop his head. The silver ring on his finger reflected the blues and purples and bottle-glass greens of the glowing silk banners suspended above him. He loved the way the music pulsed through him, as if the air was a breathing animal. 

The stairwell gave way to a curtain. He parted it, and was met with the alluring scent of sweet alcohol and perfume. The dancers were an entangled, writhing mass of bodies, encased in the glow that came off of the dance floor like some sinister fog.

The man eased around the perimeter of the floor and took a seat at the bar—a slab of obsidian, etched with amber runes the hummed ever so faintly behind the music. As he flagged the bartender down, he felt a familiar tug on his arm. 

“Alden Liddel? What brings a wanted man like you into the White Rabbit?” 

Alden smirked. He waved for a simple bourbon and was passed a glass. “I really thought a pretty-boy escort like you would be hanging on the arm of some noble at the ball tonight.” He raised the glass to his lips and took a swig, watching the reflection of the dancers in the mirror behind the bar.

“You didn’t answer my question, sir.” 

Alden took another drink and swiveled his chair around so that he could lean an elbow on the bar. The escort was watching him expectantly, his white hair glowing under the black lights. He was dressed in a white dress shirt and white vest with tight slacks. Alden’s gaze switched to the dance floor again. “I’m meeting someone.” 

The escort pouted and plucked at invisible lint on the lapel of Alden’s blue suit. “Are you going to the ball tonight?” 

“I’m sitting in a nightclub.” 

“Waiting for someone.” 

Alden sighed and ran a hand over his face. “I wasn’t lying. Sorry, Luxo. I don’t have the money tonight.” 

The escort scoffed. “That’s no surprise. Who are you waiting for?” He walked his slender fingers across Alden’s shoulder, pressing himself close on his bar stool.

“No one important. In fact, I think that’s her.” Alden stood, squinting over the heads of dancers. A shimmering form parted the crowd with elegant ease, her long, dark hair pulled up and wound into a web of lace.

“No one of importance?” Luxo hissed. “You realize that that is the Duchess of the House of Diamonds, yes?” 

Alden shooed him away.

The woman took a seat at the bar next to Alden, but paid him little heed. She rested her hand upon the table, and on her finger glittered a silver ring. She asked for a scotch. 

Alden smirked and gingerly set his drink upon the bar, then leaned close, clasping his hands so that his ring was visible in the dim club light. “Duchess…” 

She turned her piercing blue gaze onto Alden and looked him up and down. Her black lips curled in a smile. “Alden Liddel. What a coincidence. Why am I surprised that you’re not at the king’s coronation ball?” She stirred her scotch with her finger. 

“I should be asking you the same thing. Won’t our lovely king be expecting your company?” 

She feigned exasperation. “I will not stand by his side like the rest of his drooling sycophants. Besides. My husband wanted me here, as you know.” 

“Yes. He has to appear at the ball, at least. How’s the kid?” 

“Which one?” She smiled. A hand flitted to her stomach, over the mesh strip between her bust and hips. 

Alden raised his eyebrows. “Dangerous work to be doing with a child. All the same, congratulations.” 

“Thank you. Shall we go? I have a car waiting for us.” The duchess stood, presenting her beaded clutch. 

Alden raised a hand. “I’ll get it.” He dug a few coins from his pocket and slid them onto the table. 

“Tapped for cash, hm?” Luxo purred, tracing Alden’s spine. 

The hair on his neck rose. He had almost forgotten about the escort sitting beside him, hanging onto his every word… “Luxo, find yourself a wealthy man for the night and have some fun, yeah?” 

The duchess turned. Her eyes wandered Luxo’s pretty face and then down, taking in his slim figure and decent dress. She smiled and cocked an eyebrow. “Prostitute? I apologize if I was interrupting something, Alden.” 

Heat flared across Alden’s cheeks. He cleared his throat and guzzled down the rest of his bourbon. 

“Escort, actually,” Luxo said, then bowed his head. “I work for White Rabbit, M’lady.” 

The duchess hummed thoughtfully. “Do you have a card--Luxo, was it?” 

Alden spluttered. “You can’t be serious,” he said through a fit of coughing. 

Luxo cocked his hip, unquestioning, and presented a silver card from his back pocket. On one side was a pocket watch. On the other was Luxo’s information, inlaid in gold ink. He handed it to the duchess. “I am booked solid this week, but may have a cancellation this weekend.” 

“You’re married!” Alden cried. 

The duchess pursed her lips. “Not for me, Alden Liddel. I have another plan.” She tucked the card into her clutch and held it close with both hands, smiling. “Let us go,” she said curtly, and turned a softer eye to Luxo. “I will call you. Try to stay free next week.” She turned on a stiletto and glided back toward the door, her shimmering dress transforming her into a silvery apparition beneath the blacklights. Alden followed, brow furrowed, but said not a word. 

The air outside was clear and cool, and an automatic carriage was waiting for them on the street corner. The rain came down in a steady, depressing drizzle, and Alden was glad to get out of it when the duchess’s bodyguard opened the side door for him and ushered him in. He slid into the luxurious velvet seat and sat back, sighing. His drink had given him a warm feeling in his stomach, and a pleasant buzzing in his head. He could smell the musky scent of the duchess’s perfume as she slid into the car next to him, so close that he could smell her skin. He breathed in deeply through his nose. 

“Alden, I want you to pose as a member of the court,” the duchess said. 

The carriage lurched forward. Alden almost thought it was his heart leaping into his throat. “You know I can’t do that. I’ve got war crimes hanging over my head. March would smell me coming a mile away.” 

The duchess shook her head. From a dispenser in the car door, she withdrew a cigarette and lit it with the receptacle. Its glow weaved in the dark as she took a long, steady drag. “You would be disguised, of course. And it wouldn’t be for long. Just long enough to, say, gain King Reddael’s trust.” 

Alden scoffed. “That’ll be a bloody fuckin’ long time, duchess. The answer is no. Not when March is around.” 

“Please, Alden.” 

“No.” 

“For the sake of the House of Diamonds?” 

“No!” 

“We’ll get rid of March.” 

“N--...” Alden paused, listening. He squinted at the duchess, where the glow of the cigarette illuminated her high cheekbones and pale features. He rolled his shoulders uncomfortably beneath her burning gaze, rubbing the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger. “And how do you propose we do that?” 

“Simple. We’re going to kill him.” 

Alden’s gaze snapped up. “Kill him? I never signed up for murder. I’ve already got blood on my hands.” 

The duchess threw her hands up, flicking ashes. “We’re running short on time, Alden Liddel. It won’t be long before March turns Redd’s head right around on those pretty shoulders of his and points the blame at the House of Diamonds. If you want this country back, you’re going to need to fight for it.” 

The carriage slowed. Alden glanced out the window. Through the rain droplets on the window, his apartment complex stood, dark and desolate. He sighed and opened the door. “I’ll think about it,” she said, stepping out. He felt a tug on his sleeve, and looked up to find the duchess’s face inches from his own, the smoke on her teeth creating a dizzying toxin with her perfume. 

“Think about it quickly, Alden Liddel. Wonderland is counting on you.” She released him and slammed the carriage door shut. It rocked forward and disappeared down the street, wheels clattering on the cobblestone.


	3. The Ace of Spades

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Spades were banished from Wonderland after the Heart-Spade war and Ace, the House's lord, is none too happy about it. March meets up with him in the castle gardens with a quick solution to Ace's problems, but there is always a catch.

Ace stood waiting, listening, his breath condensing on the glistening bricks mere inches from his face. The wind whispered low and teasing, rustling the hedge leaves and carrying with it the tantalizing scents of sweet wine and pastries. He closed his eyes. The crunch of gravel underfoot filled his ears. The glow of a lantern crept around the corner, bouncing off of the dew droplets that gathered on the thin branches between the leaves. A low, shaky breath left his lungs. He smiled and straightened, ignoring the cracks from his spine, and dusted off his frock as he left his cold, cramped hiding place behind the hedges. 

The lantern was thrust into his face. He threw up his arms defensively. “Watch where you swing that, you imbecile!” 

March squinted at him over the light. Slowly, he turned and started down the gravel path of the maze. His circle of lantern light followed. “Walk with me, Ace. We have much to discuss and not much time to discuss it.” 

Ace flinched and shook his head. “Damn that voice of yours, March.” He started after him, his eyes traveled back to the source of the din far above, where the festive light of the ballroom spilled onto the balcony from the open doors. Laughter flowed all the way down to his ears. He envied it. He spat into the grass before falling into step beside March, arms crossed. “I do not like this, March. If I am caught here, I will surely be arrested.” 

“And I will be the one offing your head,” March mused. 

“Pardon?” 

“I will not let the king back out of his promise to you, Lord Spade.” March approached a fork and turned left. The maze was very silent, its walls towering higher and higher with each passing step. No wind reached them in its dark heart. “You must understand that until we get this kingdom back on its feet, we can spare no expense on your reparations.” 

It was late--so late that the sun was creeping over the horizon, bleeding purple into the dark clouds. Ace pushed the breath from his lungs and withdrew his watch from his pocket. He glanced at it briefly. “Surely you can think of some form of interest?” 

March whirled to face him, looming over Ace. He held the lantern close. “Do humor me, Lord Spade. What is it you have in mind that this ravaged kingdom could possibly satiate?” 

Ace fumbled with his frock. “Well, I have been thinking, actually. I wouldn’t mind the company of the king himself, just for a night.” 

March stared at him, long and hard. Ace shrank. March turned on his heel and sulked off. “Absolutely not.” The glow of his lantern receded around another bend and was absorbed into the leaves. 

Ace jogged to catch up. Even in dawn, the air was uncomfortably frigid. Tiny petals of snow drifted lazily down onto their shoulders, but did not stick. “And why ever not, Mr. March?” Ace asked, pulling his scarf out from beneath his frock. He looped it around his ears to keep them warm. “Would tonight not be perfect for it? He’ll be drunk, won’t he?” 

“I must say that you have become quite the pig in your older years, Lord Spade,” March said, exasperated. 

“Pah! I’m hardly forty winters.” 

March simpered. The long stretch they walked opened into a heart-shaped square in the maze’s center, busy with flickering fireflies eager to hide from the snow. A still fountain, cracked and broken from years of mismanagement, shimmered with dew beneath the lights of the castle. March set his lantern on its rim and turned, arms crossed. “My answer is final. I forbid it.” 

“A servant, then,” Ace snapped. 

There was a pause. A slow, lazy smile curled March’s thin lips. He cocked an eyebrow. “A servant? From the castle? Would it not be easier to merely…” March rolled his wrist. “I don’t know, hire a White Rabbit?” 

Ace clicked his tongue. “Can we head back to my carriage, please? It’s bloody freezing out here.” He turned and started back into the maze. 

March pulled the lantern from the fountain rim and followed, calling after him, “Let’s strike a deal, Lord Spade. I will convince King Reddael to lift your charges and allow you back into the court. You will gain back your house, your title, and your land. That will be your interest.” 

The crunch of Ace’s footsteps ceased. “Under what condition?” 

The light of the lantern closed the gap between them. March took the lead, beckoning Ace to follow. He had almost turned down the wrong path. “Do you still have ties with the caravan in Witzender?” he said. 

“Of course,” Ace said stiffly. 

“Are the Weavers Dum and Dee still alive and well?” Another turn. March continued ahead confidently, leaving Ace to wonder if he actually knew where he was headed. 

“Weaver Dee is, I believe.” 

“Contact him for me, will you?” 

Ace glanced at him, brow furrowed. 

The hedge maze fell in height, leaving them in the open of the courtyard beneath the cover of the peach trees. Frost glazed their leaves white. March reached into the nearest canopy and plucked a plump, red peach from a low hanging branch. He rubbed its fuzzy surface as he spoke. “I am in need of his services again, you see. I am losing my… touch with King Reddael.” He tossed the peach into the grass. 

Ace watched it roll, and raised a subconscious hand to his throat. His eyes flicked up to meet March’s frosted gaze. He jutted his chin forward. “I can contact him, yes.” He hesitated. “If I get my servant.” 

“_Tch._ Fine. But I can’t simply pluck one from the kitchens and send him off with you. Come. I can give you two hours in my chambers.” March turned and wandered along the edge of the path, back in the direction of the castle. Ace’s carriage was concealed in the woods just beyond the gate to the east of the courtyard, but March wasn’t heading that way. He waved for Ace to follow. “Wouldn’t you rather have a soldier? Or a squire? Servants are very dull, and they will be more than exhausted after this party.” 

“I can have a soldier? You flatter me, Mr. March.” 

“Watch your tongue. And quiet down. The guards patrol this stretch.” 

March weaved through the trees and darted down the narrow spans of gravel toward the western wall of the castle, keeping low and staying close. He ghosted through the gate and waved for Ace to follow, then settled in a patch of shadowed grass to allow a patrol to pass. Along the wall, there was a drop leading into a small guard station hardly large enough to shelter a grown man from the rain. March waited, then pushed Ace ahead of him and darted down the steps, wrenching Ace up by the back of his frock when he tripped. He shoved him into the station and locked the door behind him. It was very cramped within. Ace smelled alcohol on March’s breath. 

“I do not see a method to this mad--” 

“Shh.” March reached beneath the crest mounted upon the wall and prodded its back. 

Click.

Ace felt the wall behind him give. He staggered back, and was surprised to feel a cool breeze against his nape. He turned, puzzled, to find a narrow, dimly lit hall and an oak door at its end. March strode past him. He presented a key and unlocked the door, then ushered Ace to follow. Tentatively, he stepped inside. 

Black and gray curtains were suspended from the ceiling in ribbons, replicating the sinister look of storm clouds. The floor was a patchwork quilt of carpets and fine rugs, all ornate and glimmering with the gilded strands weaved into them. The walls were, to Ace’s fascination, padded. He did not try to conceal his amazement. He ran his fingers through the fine, silky fur of the bandersnatch pelt spread across the bed, which took up almost half of the entire chamber. “Does King Reddael know of this chamber?” 

“No. Very few do,” March said. He was still standing in the doorway, his arms crossed over his broad chest. 

Ace perched on the edge of the bed, smiling. His eyes lighted upon the glass case adjacent to the bed, and all of the ridges and and spines and odd, twisted shapes he could make out past the shadowy tint. He frowned at the heart-shaped lock that gleamed at him from its front. “Can I not use those?” 

“No, unless you plan to clean them, which I highly doubt.” He glanced at his wrist, despite there not being a clock there. “Time is ticking, Lord Spade. Do you have any preferences for your soldier?” 

Ace leaned down and plucked at the laces on his boots. “I’m not particular, as long as he isn’t some dud who makes me do all the work.” 

March cocked his head. “I will see what I can do,” he said, and closed the door behind him.


End file.
